Shatter
by itsclowreedsfault
Summary: It's a world of shadows, of corruption and blood that takes its toll on the weak. Chuuya prides himself on not being one of those; he climbs the ranks, he fights, and for a while, he wins. But unbeknownst to him, there's an hourglass inside his mind that started running the moment he stepped inside the darkness, the sand falling faster the more Chuuya descends into it.


Chuuya is still young when he joins the Port Mafia.

It's a world of shadows, of corruption and blood that takes its toll on the weak. Chuuya prides himself on not being one of those; he climbs the ranks, he fights, and for a while, he wins. But unbeknownst to him, there's an hourglass inside his mind that started running the moment he stepped inside the darkness, the sand falling faster the more Chuuya descends into it.

He doesn't know yet, but this hourglass is fragile, and he's running out of time.

* * *

Chuuya has a partner.

Osamu Dazai, Port Mafia executive, the guy with ruthless eyes and a tendecy to annoy Chuuya whenever he opens his mouth. But together, they're deadly. They go on the most dangerous missions, they take lives, they don't bat an eye when they press the trigger.

But each time, more grains of sand fall, filling the bottom of the hourglass until they far surpass the amount that's left on the top. And they're heavy, these grains, too heavy to be held by a glass that's starting to show its cracks.

Chuuya begins to notice it. He ignores it all - the nightmares that get more frequent, the hesitancy, the moments of distraction, the foolish mistakes he hadn't comitted ever since his first missions.

If Dazai notices there's something wrong with him, he doesn't mention it, and Chuuya pretends everything is fine.

But the bottom of the hourglass is almost full, and it can't hold the sand for much longer.

* * *

The kids are the last straw, Chuuya thinks.

They're the loudest in his head; their high-pitched screams calling for their mom and dad over and over again, clearly audible even with the crackling sound of the fire Chuuya had started. There had been no help, however; no mom to come tell them it was okay, no dad to defeat the big scary monster under the bed. Their parents were far away, gone on a trip from which they would return only to ashes - an accident, the police says, and they nod and pretend to accept it, but when they're alone they coil in fear, agonizing and blaming themselves for the death of their kids and of that poor babysitter who had no real part in all this.

After a week, Dazai and Chuuya pay them a visit.

Chuuya's hand shakes as he presses the barrel of the gun to the man's forehead, hesitates before pulling the trigger.

 _Mom! Dad! Help us!_

"Please," says the man.

Next to him, Dazai shoots the man's wife, and Chuuya forces himself to do the same.

Their boss doesn't forgive those who break.

How ironic, isn't it, that Chuuya should be the one to break next.

* * *

On his next mission, he can't pull the trigger.

His head hurts with all the voices, the screaming, the crying. He can't see the face of the person on the other side of his gun - it keeps blurring, changing into a thousand others who've been in the same place before. Their pleas mix with the noise in Chuuya's head, until he can't take it anymore. The bottom of the hourglass is full, and the glass breaks.

So he lowers his weapon, turns around, and runs, and runs, and runs.

Away from the smell of fire, from the metallic tang of blood.

* * *

Chuuya knows he can't hide forever.

A few days later, it's Dazai that finds him. Chuuya tries not to look as pathetic as he feels - calls Dazai every stupid name he can think of, complains that if he is to be disposed of then it shouldn't be done by someone as low as him. Dazai listens, eyes cold as ice, watches as Chuuya's façade crumbles, shatters into a million pieces at his feet.

"Just do it already," Chuuya says, falling to his knees. He's tired.

Of the screams, of running away.

Instead of his gun, however, it's his fist that Dazai uses, and Chuuya's world goes black around him.

* * *

Only Dazai would have a safe house unknown by the Port Mafia.

He doesn't say anything about why he's saved Chuuya's life, and Chuuya doesn't ask. During the first few days, he's barely aware of his surroundings - he keeps dozing off and waking up drenched in sweat, choking on invisible smoke, carrying the screams from his dreams in his mind.

It's right after one of his nightmares that Dazai comes to his room. He pulls a struggling Chuuya up by his hand, dragging him towards a door at the end of the corridor, pushing it open to reveal a room empty except for a pristine looking piano sitting in the middle of it.

"I never thought you could become even more annoying, Chuuya," Dazai says, that mocking tone Chuuya knows so well present on his voice. Before, he would have gotten angry at his teasing.

Now, Chuuya just stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the piano, for the first time focused on something other than what's in his head.

Dazai sighs. Pushes Chuuya forward, his hand resting lightly on his lower back. "Play. Like you used to."

The weight of the piano lid is familiar on Chuuya's hands, the feel of the keys beneath his fingers an echo of another time, before he started cracking, before the hourglass started running.

The first notes are hesitant, but soon Chuuya's hands are flying over the piano, spilling out a melody he can't remember the name of. But it's loud, and if he plays it long enough perhaps it'll become louder.

So he plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers are rubbed raw and his wrists hurt so much they turn numb.

He plays, to drown out the voices, to drown out the screams.

* * *

The piano room becomes Chuuya's favorite place.

He never leaves the house; constantly playing, constantly fighting against his own mind. Dazai comes and goes, but sometimes he stays, leaning on the wall in front of Chuuya and talking for hours on end.

On his bad days, Chuuya's unresponsive to everything around him, Dazai's words only a string of noise he doesn't understand. On his good days, just the sound of Dazai's voice makes him react, insults rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, and it's almost as if they are back to when they were partners.

Except they aren't. Chuuya is but a ghost of his former self, and he wants to kill Dazai, for being whole while he has shattered.

He also wants to kiss him, if only to shut him up.

* * *

Only one of Chuuya's wishes comes true, and he finds out there's ways other than the piano to keep the voices at bay.

He's drunk the first time it happens, so he can't remember whose idea it was, but it doesn't matter. Dazai's lips are rough and demanding; Chuuya becomes boneless under his touch, can't focus on anything but his mouth.

So he lets Dazai play him like he plays the keys of his piano, until his body is on fire and Dazai's name is the only thing on his mind, falling from his lips and echoing as loud as his music in the room.

This burning doesn't smell of smoke. These screams don't taste of blood.

And for Chuuya, that's enough.

* * *

It's on one of Chuuya's good days that Oda Sakunosuke is killed.

That means he notices when Dazai enters the piano room that night. He notices the unusual stretch of silence before he starts talking, and the heavy weight on his voice.

"They killed Odasaku," Dazai says, and Chuuya doesn't ask who "they" are, because he doesn't care. He vaguely remembers the guy, and that's it, so he keeps on playing until Dazai speaks again and the music comes to a sudden stop. "I'm leaving the Mafia."

Chuuya doesn't raise his eyes from the piano, but his fingers tremble over the keys. The screaming in his head is but a background noise to Dazai's words.

"You don't get to run away," he says, his voice low but sharp.

"You don't tell me what to do, Chuuya," Dazai answers. It's not teasing, or playful.

Chuuya wishes it was.

The stool makes a screeching sound as it's dragged across the floor, and suddenly his hands are around Dazai's neck, squeezing.

"You don't get to run away," Chuuya repeats, but his voice catches at the end when he sees the challenge in Dazai's eyes.

He releases his hold, only to pull Dazai towards him in a kiss. It's forceful, their teeth clashing, but the other doesn't struggle; instead, he kisses Chuuya back with a passiveness that's as unlike him as everything else he's done that night. Chuuya forces Dazai pliant under him, mindless of the cold hard floor beneath them. He traces every inch of skin with his mouth, covers it all in bites; his fingers map Dazai's body, pressing so hard they're bound to leave marks that'll last for weeks. He's not gentle; his kisses taste of anger, of a bittersweet goodbye that has been forced upon him, and hell if he isn't going to punish Dazai for it.

So Chuuya takes, and takes, and takes, everything Dazai has to give and more, searching, wishing to hear his voice break, break like Chuuya once had. What he gets is ragged breathing, short nails scratching his skin, a warm body trembling along with his own.

But Dazai doesn't make a sound.

* * *

Even after Dazai leaves, Chuuya stays.

Every few days, he wakes up to find food and new clothes in a pile by the piano. Chuuya knows they're from Dazai, but he's always asleep when he comes - it's not a coincidence, it never is when Dazai is involved - and by the time he wakes up there's no sign of his old partner other than the things he left behind.

Alone in the piano room, Chuuya tells himself he'll be glad if he never sees him again.

However, it's like the sound of the rain, going _thump thump thump_ until it becomes background noise and you don't notice it anymore. But it's always there, and when the rain stops, you miss the sound. You noticeits absence, and there's this strange, sudden feeling of emptiness, an ache for something that's not there.

The screams continue, crowding Chuuya's mind, but now there's this tiny string of silence where Dazai's voice used to be, and Chuuya hates it.

He hates Dazai, for leaving him with only the voices that are not his.

He hates himself, for noticing.

For caring.

* * *

Once, Chuuya was whole.

Once, Chuuya had a partner, who got on his nerves constantly. A partner, who was as ruthless as him. A partner, who saved him when he shattered, and made him into a mess of hastily glued shards with points as sharp as a knife. A partner, who was strong enough not to break.

Who was strong enough to leave.

Now, Chuuya's only company are the screams, and a piano that isn't enough to keep them away.

So he plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers bleed and his wrists hurt.

He plays, to drown out the voices.

And to forget the silence.


End file.
